Pronouns
by Wylrin
Summary: (Aliens Ate My Homework fanfiction) Tar Gibbons has some questions for Madame Pong regarding pronouns.


To say she had been expecting someone at this late hour would be a lie, but she's gotten better at telling those over the course of a few months. Her diplomatic training required that she lie and lie without the subtlest trace of dishonesty, which suited her just fine. Not all lies were such evil things, after all. Some were told to ease the burden of harmful knowledge, others issued to protect. While not entirely honest at times, she was hardly unscrupulous. Her profession simply dictated that she tell a few little white lies for the sake of the common good.

So no, she was not expecting someone at this hour, but she could have easily told you otherwise.

At the buzz of the doorbell at her door, she called simply, "Come in, please," before standing from her seated position to address whoever was about to enter.

The door opened, revealing the four-legged alien she'd become acquainted with over the past few months. Gibbons was its name, Tar its honorific. The exact translation of the honorific was lost on her, but it had said that it translated into something like, "Wise and beloved warrior who could kill with his little finger should he so desire." This was the person at her door, yet she did not feel threatened in the slightest. There was a very large difference between would and could, and the other alien was as gentle as can be.

Blinking its eyes at her, it inquired, "May I come in?"

She gestured for it to come inside. "Of course," she said, making one of her small bows. It bowed its own head in response before shutting the door behind it.

"Please, take a seat," Madame Pong insisted, her diplomatic instinct telling her this interaction would be a lengthy one. Most conversations with the Tar were. "Did you have something on your mind?" she ventured to ask.

It paused for a moment before it issued its reply. "Yes," it said simply, before elaborating, "I was hoping you could explain something to me."

Nodding her head, she took a seat herself and folded her hands in front of her, saying, "I will do my best."

"Thank you. It is a matter that has been troubling me for some time."

Brow furrowed, she asked, "What is it?"

Looking to her with a quizzical look in its eyes, it asked her, "Why do people call me a man, or use the pronoun "he" when referring to me?"

Frowning softly, she asked it, "Who called you a man?"

"I shan't name names," it told her. "But this has been a recurring problem. Instead of referring to me as a farfel, I am referred to as a male." Blinking confusedly at her, it asked, "Would you happen to know why?"

She pondered it for a moment. The only answer she could come up with on the spot was, "I would assume that many are ignorant of your particular species, and do not know what else to call you." It seemed like a reasonable explanation.

"But why call me a man?" it persisted. "No one has ever called me a woman before."

Now that was strange. There was a 50/50 chance of being called a man or a woman, and thus far, the Tar has only been called the former.

Continuing in a rather perplexed tone, Tar Gibbons asked, "Am I a particularly masculine farfel?"

She couldn't help but laugh softly at that, much to its confusion. Ah, she still had to get better at hiding her amusement at times. She supposed this could be considered good practice, then. She only wished she had an answer for it.

"I wouldn't know," Madame Pong replied.

It sighed, perhaps disheartened at her lack of information, before it ventured, "I fail to understand it. Why is there a consensus that I am a gender that I am not?"

She spread her hands. "I cannot say. Do you ever correct them when they call you a male?"

"Yes, frequently," it replied. "Some even on more than one occasion."

"I am sorry," the madame told it sincerely.

"Do not be. I was wondering, however, if I might ask for your assistance?"

"Of course. What do you need?"

"I was wondering if I could borrow this," it said, gesturing to an object she kept with her from home.

Puzzled, but still more than glad to help, she said, "Of course."

"Thank you," was its reply before plucking the object from its place and standing to rise to its full height. Bowing its head, it told her, "I hate to leave in such great haste, but I believe I have some work ahead of me."

"Of course. Did you need any assistance?" she asked, always willing to help out her comrade.

Shaking its head, it said, "No, no. This is something I must do alone."

"If you're sure. In any case, it was nice seeing you again."

"Likewise."

"What in the name of Zarkov...?"

"Greetings, Grakker," came its calm reply.

"What are you doing?" the Friskan Fighter demanded.

"Doing? Nothing in particular. Classes are about to start, yes? I understand you are at the top of your class. Congratulations."

"You can't— You seriously aren't going to be fighting in _that_?"

"Why ever not? It is most certainly comfortable. I would recommend it—"

"No, no. You're not convincing _me_ to wear that."

"Very well, suit yourself."

In the end, it turned out that its new choice of attire was not the best for practicing the martial arts.

"May I come in?" the Tar asked, once again standing outside of Madame Pong's door.

"Of course," came the reply. There was a shuffling before the door opened, and then there was a long stretch of silence as the madame took in the Tar's attire.

It took every ounce of her diplomatic training to not bust out laughing.

Hiding a small smile behind her hand, she gestured with her free hand into the room, "Please, have a seat," she said, doing her best to keep the laughter out of her voice.

"Thank you," was its reply. It took some time for it to comfortably sit down, as its somewhat cumbersome attire prevented it from sitting the way it normally would.

Struggling to keep a straight face, the diplomat asked it, "So, how was your work? Did you finish?"

"Yes, I did. And the results were... Well. The results were interesting."

"What sort of work was it? Did it have something to do with Warrior Science?"

"Ah, not this time. This time it was more of a social experiment," it said.

"Social experiment?" she asked, obviously interested. "Of what sort?"

"Do you recall how many people refer to me as a man, or use the pronoun "he" when referring to me?" it asked.

She nodded. "Of course."

"Well, I wanted to see if the problem would persist if I wore _this_."

Folding her hands neatly in front of her, she asked, "And what were the results of your experiment?"

"I was called a woman a few times," it relayed. "I was also called "it." I believe I may have heard "gender-confused" in there somewhere, as well."

She laughed softly. "So what is the conclusion of your experiment?"

Pondering the answer it would give, it said, "It would seem that if I want to be referred to as an it occasionally, I will have to make a habit of wearing this."

"And do you _want_ to wear that?" she asked.

There was a moment of silence. "Well... not particularly. It is difficult to maneuver in this garment. It is especially difficult to fight, I might add as well."

"You wore that to your classes?" Madame Pong asked, amazed.

"Yes. The results were... not pleasant."

"I can imagine."

"I got all tangled up in the worst possible ways. Warrior Science should dictate that one shalt not fight in a poofy dress," the Tar told her.

"Oh I don't know. A poofy dress is all some people have."

"True. Never mind my statement, then."

"So are you really going to wear that?"

"It would seem that I must," said the Tar reluctantly. "That is, if I want to occasionally be referred to as the correct gender."

"Do you know what I think?" Madame Pong asked quietly.

"Of course not. I am not a mental master. I cannot read your mind."

With a soft laugh, she said, "I think you shouldn't have to work so hard to simply be called the correct gender."

"I agree. However, what choice do I have? People do not recognize me as a farfel for... for whatever reason."

"I think you need to be more assertive," she told him. "Don't let others' opinions of you dictate who you are." Smiling, she added, "Or what you wear."

"Perhaps," it said, considering her proposition. There was a few moments of silence, then, "Madame?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

A smile. "You're welcome. Now give me back my bonnet and get changed out of that dress before you trip over yourself."


End file.
